"Great popular movements must be made up of individual actions, mustn’t they? If individuals didn’t break the laws, each guy on his own account, you wouldn’t get any popular movements at all." The chaplain shifted his ground. "All the same, there are certain laws that among all peoples and at all times have been considered fundamental. Human society can’t permit a man to steal—" "Then human society shouldn’t put a man in a position where he either has to steal or starve to death." There was a repetition of the thin, ghostly smile. "Oh, well, no one who’s ordinarily honest and industrious ever—" "Ever starves to death? That’s a lie. Excuse me," he added, apologetically, "but that kind of talk just gets my goat. My father practically starved to death—he died from lack of proper nourishment, the doctor said—and there never was a more industrious or an honester man born. He gave everything he had to human society, and when he had no more to give, human society kicked him out. It has the law on its side, too, and because"—he gulped—"I came to his help in the only way I knew how they’ve chucked me into this black hole." The chaplain found another kind of opening. "So, you see, my boy, there’s that. If you don’t keep the law—" "They can make you suffer for it," Teddy declared, excitedly. "Of course they can. They’ve made me suffer—God! how they’ve made me suffer—more, I believe, than anyone since Jesus Christ! But that’s not what we were talking about. You started in to tell me that it’s _right_ for me to suffer the way they’re making me. That’s what I kick against, and I’ll keep on kicking till they send me to the chair." "If you could do yourself any good by that—" But just here the dialogue was interrupted by the appearance of Boole, the dapper, debonair young guard who generally announced Teddy’s afternoon visitors. "Hello, old cuss! Gent to see you." The chaplain prepared to move on to the neighboring cell. His leave-taking was kindly and with a great pity in it. "We’ll go on with this talk again, my boy. When you’re able to get the right point of view—" What would happen then was drowned in the clanging of the door behind him, as Teddy stepped out into the corridor. "Who is it? Stenhouse?" he asked, as he walked along with the guard. He had already dropped into the prisoner’s habitual tone of hostile friendliness toward the officials with whom he came most in contact, recognizing the fact that had he met any of these men "on the outside" they would have hobnobbed together with the freemasonry of American young men everywhere. On their sides the keepers, apart from the fact that they considered Teddy "a tough lot," had ceased to show him animosity. "It’s not the lawyer," Boole answered now. "It’s a swell guy with a limp. Looks to me as if he might be the gay young banker sport that the papers say is married to your sister."